the hedge ran the dusty high road to the village. In
the later afternoon of a cricket match there would be
several dilatory vehicles drawn up on the other side
of the hedge, and the drivers would watch the game
in Olympian detachment. There would be the
carrier's van, and the brewer's dray, and the baker's
cart, and the doctor's gig, and sometimes even a
wagon-load of hay. None of them ever seemed to be
pressed for time, and once they were there they were
likely to stay rill the end of the innings. Rooks would
be cawing in the vicarage elms, and Butlcy, with its
huddle of red roofs and square church tower, was a
contented-looking place.
In my retrospect the players are now beginning to
appear in ones and twos. Some skim easily across the
greensward on bicycles; others arrive philosophically
on foot, pausing to inspect the wicket, which has a
nasty habit of causing fast bowling to "bump" after
a spell of dry weather.
Dixon and I were having a little practice up against
the fence when Aunt Evelyn emerged from the Flower
Show Tent with a bevy of head-gardeners. .She sig-
nalled to me, so I clambered over the palings and
went up to her. She only wanted to tell me that she
would be back again after lunch and did so hope she
wouldn't miss my innings.
"I'm feeling quite proud that Master George is
playing in the match," she exclaimed, turning to a
short, clean-shaven, small-eyed man in a square
bowler hat and his dark Sunday suit, who was stand-
ing near her. And then, to me, she added, "I was
just congratulating Mr. Bathwick on his wonderful
vegetables. We've given him the first prize, and
he thoroughly deserves it. You never saw such
tomatoes and cucumbers! I've been telling Mr.
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